


Pink Water

by bonestilts



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: M/M, contains fallout spoilers i guess, okay this fic is basically what would have happened if benji did die in fallout, this shits sad, to make sure you guys dont bail on this im just gonna tell you BENJI IS A GHOST
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-08 13:46:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15931667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonestilts/pseuds/bonestilts
Summary: "You weren’t there, you were so far away, Ethan."Ethan is physically, and mentally, unable to leave Benji behind.





	1. watch the water turn pink

**Author's Note:**

> okay so my last fic on these two was field tenderness, which i havent finished yet, and i wanna use this to apologise!!! for starting something new whilst also working on the last chapter for field tenderness, im sorry guys i love to multitask. but chapter 3 for FT is coming soon, i swear, and so will the last chapter of this. all soon. pls be patient. my poor soul has school.
> 
> also i dont have a beta so mistakes are definitely present

Ethan reaches out to flip the kettle switch, subconsciously grateful for the immediate sound of water heating (it’s an every day sound, reminds him of being normal). He stands on his tip toes to open the cupboard above his head, retrieves two plain white mugs. The apartment is silent, all except for the water boiling and the clink of ceramic on a marble bench-top. He’s not alone, but no one is talking, it leaves Ethan to his thoughts again.

He thinks about death. How death forces people to move on. Whether that means to stop rambling about how devastating it is, or to stop replaying the details in your mind, or to start playing music louder in hopes of blocking out the lingering laugh of loved ones. For Ethan’s it’s inevitable, that he has to move on. He has to keep himself busy, has to distract his mind by keeping himself moving, to make sure his emotions don’t catch up with him. 

The IMF gave him time off, they thought it would be doing him good; thought it would be giving him some fresh air, a new beginning, some time to reflect, to get his priorities in line. But if there was anything Ethan had learnt since becoming an agent, it was that after any casualty that mentally damaged team members, the first thing that needed to be done was to get them back out in the field. If they were left to their own devices for too long; sitting in silence while their forgotten tea went cold, yelling at the imaginary shadows peering around the corner of rooms, pulling at hair whilst lying in puddles of sweat in bed, woken from sleep by horrid memories, if they were even able to sleep at all. They would lose edge. 

In a way, the guilt and fear that sets in after witnessing such a permanent, confronting incident, resembles shell shock. 

Ethan had been through it before, plenty of times during the army (although those had always seemed less extreme), had borderline lapsed into depression, stripped himself from his social life and locked his mind away to protect from the overwhelming sense of sadness and guilt he felt. Luther had been the one to save him, from himself, pushed him back through the doors and encouraged him to avoid field work and instead train new recruits. It worked. During those times, Ethan had been the only one on his team there to deal with the physical aftermath of the deceased, this time it was different. 

This time he shared the loss with three others. This time he hadn’t been there to hear the declaration. This time he hadn’t even been in the area to witness it happen. This time he couldn’t even bear to think about it, let alone speak of it. This time he’d made a _promise._

And the only thing he could do was to keep moving on. To keep waking up and keep putting the kettle on, to keep checking his burner phone of notifications from Brandt and to keep making his bed despite it looking exactly the same as it had the day before, untouched. To keep tucking away the many apology letters he receives from his colleagues at the office into the draw under the coffee table, the one with a squeaky hinge. To keep remembering to feed himself at least one meal a day, to keep looking at that one photo on his shelf that reminds him exactly where he is when he forgets suddenly. 

The process of moving on is necessary, and there isn't anything he can do to turn back time, or slow it down. Ethan would have to deal with the consequences of the agency, to learn how to deal with the nagging voice in the back left of his head, telling him to get his phone and call, even just for a chat, knowing full well that the man on the other end of the line would never be there to pick it up ever again. The days were getting harder and harder to live through.

“I know people have said it to you before,” Luther says from behind Ethan, who was busying himself with a coffee filter, “but it wasn’t your fault. You do know that, right?” 

Ethan had learnt not to lie anymore. Without looking over this shoulder, he attempted to steer the conversation elsewhere. He focused on picking at the coffee stained hangnail on his good hand.

“Are you in contact with Brandt? Can you tell him that I’m ready to go back out now.” he says.

He could sense the deep sigh building within Luther’s throat. Did he come for closure? To report back to the others that everything was fine now, now that Ethan had accepted the fact that it ‘wasn’t his fault’. Is that why anyone comes over at all anymore? To make sure Ethan’s not going insane with guilt? Because it sure felt like that was happening. He should probably save them the trouble and just tell them straight up that, yes, he was constantly on the verge of losing it.

“Ethan, come on. Tell me you know it wasn’t your fault. That’s all I need, for you to just tell me that.”

“Field, Luther. I need to get back out into the field. It will do me good, trust m—“ Ethan stops himself, his throat constricting on the last word, his mind was set back to the last time he’d said it. _Not good, really not good._ Forcing a much steadier voice, he continues, “If you could ask Brandt to give me a call, he knows my burner number, then we could sort some dates out.”

“Tell me. For God’s sake, say it, for me. Tell me.”

Ethan turns around to face Luth, abandoning the steaming kettle, “Alright—okay, let’s do this your way, what—what do you want me to say? What do you want me to do?” His patience ran thin.

Luther has his hands clasped together in the middle of the marble kitchen bench, his skin striking against the pale stone, he’s leaning forward and already has his eyes set on the back of Ethan’s head, ready to delve into eye contact once he’d turned around. Ethan leant the small of his back against the opposite bench, allowing the island to separate them.

“I want you, need you, to look me in the eye and tell me that it wasn’t your fault. Because you know—you do, deep down, that it wasn’t. That there wasn’t anything you could do about it. You weren’t there, you were so far away, Ethan. _So far away_." Luther says it slowly, the emotion catching in his voice, it hurts Ethan's chest. "Just tell me, that’s all we need you to do, for the teams sake.” 

Ethan’s throat was playing up again, he managed to keep his eyes on Luther, but he couldn’t admit that it hadn’t been his fault, he didn’t believe it. He didn’t see it that way, and probably never would. 

“I can’t. I can’t say that. I’m sorry—“

Luther fired back, the once calm in his voice vanishing, “Why not, Ethan?”

“Because it’s not true.”

A moment went by, they stared at each other. Ethan could see Luther becoming physically frustrated, his face was twisting.

“Christ, Ethan! Just bloody say it wasn’t your fault!”

“What are you getting out of this? Why is it so important? I know you didn’t just come over to get this out of me, to get me to say that he didn’t d—“ he skipped over the word without missing a beat, “because of me. What the hell are you here for really, Luther? Why waste your time when you can see how affected I am by it, I’m not going to say it.”

“I came here to tell you to stop acting like you’re the only one going through this! To stop acting like you were the only one who knew him. Can you drop the selfish act and consider putting your team before yourself, for one bloody moment? Can’t you see that we’re all suffering too? He wasn’t yours, Ethan, he meant something to us too, you know.” Luther had rose from the island stool and made his way over to Ethan, taking a fistful of his shirt whilst shouting in his face. 

Ethan tried his best not to let Luther’s words sink in, to not process them. It wasn’t working. He was too late to settle the hot anger bubbling up in his stomach. 

“Oh!” Ethan half-laughed, half-scowled, “You think I don’t know, that I’m not trying? Do you have any idea, any whatsoever, what kind of _demons_ I’ve been trying to fight ever since it happened? If you want to share the burden of knowing you were the reason he’s not with us anymore, give me a sign, I’d be glad to let you in on what’s going on inside my head.” Ethan’s voice dropped, heavy with emotion, “Because shit, Luther, it’s a lot. It’s a whole lot.” 

Luther looked taken back for a second, still towering over him, and Ethan wondered if it was because this was the first time he had even thought about how Ethan felt, how he really felt. That he wasn’t just some super spy robot, a man who was immune to feelings, or maybe just another nobody some bored suit from the IMF decided to give a shot. Then Ethan remembered that it couldn’t be possible, Luther knew him better than anyone. He should know that Ethan was ripping himself open from the inside out, that he was battling his own conscious every second he was awake, that his fists clenched hard enough for his nails to cut into his palm every time he saw something that reminded him of the man, which was always, because everything reminded Ethan of him, Luther _would know_ this. So why does he yell at Ethan as if he’s never been through this before, like it was his first time losing someone dear to him? 

“This is exactly what I mean, fuck your demons, what about our demons? Why don’t you bother to ask about how any of us are going?”

Ethan cut in fast. It was as if he still thought he could save himself. “I’m only human, Luth, I can’t help these things from happening. I forget and I prioritise myself, I—”

“No, yes, you can help these things from happening, you can by giving any of us a call, or popping in to say hello. That way you’d actually know what was going on outside of your sorrow cave.”

“Fine, what has been going on outside of my sorrow cave, anything worth while? Anything more important than tending my mental instability—”

“—Ilsa is off the grid.” 

There was a single moment to let it settle in. 

“She can’t even handle seeing any of our faces anymore because it’s too much for her. And not just her—Julia’s been crying for two weeks straight, she’s got an eye infection because of it. I mean, I’m—I’m only just getting by with therapy three times a week. And you keep talking about Brandt as if he’s working again, he’s not there anymore, Ethan. He resigned.” Ethan’s breathing halted. “For fucks sake, man! It hit us all hard, maybe even harder for you, but we’re still staying strong, for _him_. You can’t treat this as if you’re the only one struggling. So, I—would it be better if I said it for you?”

Ethan couldn’t even hear him anymore, his brain had stopped at Brandt. Resigned. 

_Resigned._

William Brandt was gone for good, all because Ethan had failed to save the one man he’d promised to keep safe. Ethan was well and truly destroying lives. He questioned if there really was anything he could do right anymore.

“Go ahead, Ethan, opt for silence. You always seem to be at loss of words when someone needs you to say something that’ll make an impact, that you can’t take back, huh?” Ethan kept his mouth in a tight line, Luther was sweating, face red, “Right, here’re the facts, this is what you asked for. The new secretary sent me here to pry it out of you, I’d asked him personally, he said if we could get you to say it, to _really_ say it, that it meant it was appropriate to bring you back in. But you can't even fucking say his name yet. Can you?” 

Luther took a wobbly step back, releasing Ethan’s shirt from his fist. They faced each other with only a foot between them, both with their hands on the bench lip behind them, steadying. Only then did Ethan realise that Luther wasn’t sweating at all, he was crying. 

“You can’t even say his goddamn name.” He repeated, dully. Then paused. “Don’t you think that after all this, you at least owe him that?”

Ethan's stomach had dropped, his hands were shaking like hell but he kept them behind his back, pressing them against the bench in an attempt to steady them. Luther ducked his head, tucking his chin into the collar of his shirt. Ethan’s breathing was uneven, he was overwhelmed by all the information. There was only so many blows he could take in a single day. He felt the familiar sting of raw truth deep in his chest. 

Ethan wasn’t sure what to do, he wasn’t helping anyone by moping around, but he was certain he wouldn’t be any use in the field anymore either. Now that he knew that no one would be there once he got back. He could tell by Luther’s shoes that he wasn’t going in to work, that he had been travelling around, keeping himself on his feet; although he was still in contact with the office—otherwise he wouldn’t have come. Brandt wasn’t intelligence anymore, he’s probably hid himself away somewhere to grieve as well. Julia was isolating herself to mourn and Ilsa was no where to be found, too disgusted by Ethan. _Where was the good?_

They stayed there for some time, reorganising their thoughts, pushing their feelings back in line. Ethan didn’t lift his eyes off the floor.

“I did kill him, Luther. I know I did.” He saw Luther look at him in his peripheral vision, “What you said was true, I’m not even bothering to consider you guys, I’m too caught up in knowing I was the cause that I’ve completely forgotten about keeping us all together. It might have helped, I guess we won’t know now.” he took a deep breath. “If I hadn’t been so careless at the airport all those years ago, if I hadn’t put him in harms way in the first place by openly expressing how much he meant to me out in the field, which immediately gave him away as a pressure point to any interested party,” Ethan shook his head at the thought, at his mistakes, “If I hadn’t been so slow running down to that carpark, or if I’d fought harder to get him off of Lane’s radar. If I hadn’t done all of those things, then, and maybe then, I could say that I wasn’t responsible for his death. But I did, so I’m sorry, but,” Ethan locked eyes with Luther now, "I don’t have the right to say that.”

Luther took a shuddering breath, picked himself off from the bench and stalked towards the coat hanger at the front door. His clothes were the only ones occupying it. 

“I know.” Ethan watched Luther quietly. “I know—and you’re right, you’re right, you can’t say it. Not after all that, in fact, now you mention it, you’re one-hundred-perfect right. What was I doing, thinking you’d changed? Coming here was a lost cause.”

There was no anger in his voice, no disappointment; it was sounded more like loss of hope. Luther’s tone was empty, devoid of emotion—he’d won. It told Ethan that Luther finally understood what he was trying to get across, and in doing so, realised that he was previously on the wrong side; defending the wrong person. Ethan tried not to wince at it, at how fast it was to convince Luther, how fast it took , he was ashamed at his own harshness towards his friend, knowing now that he would always beat Luther. Always had.

“See you around, Ethan.” 

_No, you won’t._

He didn’t even look back, just closed the door behind him and left Ethan in the emptiness of his own five-star apartment. _Sorry for wasting your time_ , Ethan wanted to call out, to no one. Something cold touched the back of his neck, causing the hairs to stand on end. Ethan shivered, placing a hand on the skin to soothe the chill. 

Ethan knows the coffee has gone cold by this point, he hadn’t even bothered to offer it whilst Luther was still here; but he stills reaches around behind him to pick up a mug and place the lip against his chin. He doesn’t sip, just stands there and contemplates. The position reminds him of his past life, with Julia, when he used to feel good about standing in the kitchen with a mug against his mouth, thinking about things. He had been as normal as normal gets back then.

“Shower.” he says to himself. “Shower’ll do.”

He puts the mug down, retreats to the bathroom past the front door (ignoring the fact that Luther’s coat was the only thing making his place look habitable), and begins stripping by the glass door of the shower. 

Ethan makes sure the water is on the hottest setting, he allows himself to pretend its the water from the kettle; boiling, burning, steaming, changing state. He watches as the skin on his arms and chest start to redden at the heat, his body adapting to the sudden change. Ethan wishes his mind could do the same. He stands there for twenty minutes, ignoring the voice in his head suggesting him to wash himself properly, with soap, to stimulate a normal shower, one he would have had before all of this went down. 

He craves simplicity. 

Ethan tries to block out the memories that resurface as the water pelts down on the back of his neck, streaming over his collarbones and down his still bruised ribcage. Tries to forget what it had been like to take a shower after it happened; watching the dirt clumps float around his feet before being sucked down the drain, eagerly trying to rinse out the blood from his eye, and the smell, the goddamn metallic smell of iron deep in his nostrils as clear water turned pink. The last physical evidence of his struggles being washed away, so easily, as if it’d been just as easy to lose a nail from a rock, break two ribs being crushed in a helicopter, or to split his forehead open. The only thing left was the body. He cried during that shower, the first time he’d let himself since ’06, and hadn't even realised until he was in bed afterwards, his eyes puffy and stinging; it’d been too hard to tell the water and tears apart whilst showering. 

Ethan doesn’t towel himself off, he stands in front of the mirror for a long time and looks for something behind his eyes; anything at all. He gets into bed a little wet and hates that he can still hear the pulse of a helicopter vibrating away somewhere in his ears. He curls into a ball and drives away the gruesome images painted on the back of his eyelids, patiently waiting until sleep takes over, if it ever will. 

Thankfully, it does. 


	2. lesson learnt: never have a personal chat ever again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ethan dreams about his last memorable conversation with Benji Dunn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey so heres this, once again i dont have a beta so there is DEFINITELY errors and misspellings and whatnot, maybe try not to pay attention to those. if i pick up on them later on, i'd change em up.
> 
> thanks for all the fucking amazing comments guys, ive only cried over them twice—so, not so bad. ive upped the chapter number to 3 instead of 2, this bugger's gonna be longer than i thought. stay tuned!

_One of the tires hit a rock, jolting the people inside but failed to wake the ones who were dozing. Ethan’s eyes were trained on the dirt road in front, Benji sat in the passenger seat beside him, he’d swapped with Ilsa on their quick toilet break._

_“We hardly ever talk about personal things, do we?”_

_“Never any time for it.” Ethan smiled over at Benji, his checks pulled up tight, there wasn’t one returned._

_“I’ve always got time, you just never want to.”_

_Was he trying to fight? Ethan couldn’t tell if Benji was attempting to spark something in him, although his voice did sound tense. “It’s not that I don’t want to, I can just never tell when the right—“_

_“Right times don’t exist. For anything.”_

_Ethan paused, thought about his response for a moment. “That’s true, you’re right. Do you want to have one now? A personal… chat?” He almost inwardly cringed._

_“Sorta, though I want to ask you something.”_

_“Shoot.”_

_“Do you ever get scared during moments like these?”_

_Benji looked over at Ethan. He could see in the corner of his eye that Benji’s hand was kneading at his knee, he was nervous, possibly seeking assurance from Ethan — who had no doubt been through experiences like these many times._

_“Like what?”_

_“Right before a mission, right before going into battle. When you’re driving to your mark, gun still stashed away because you’re not yet prepared to face anyone. The moment of safety before shit hits the fan. Moments like those.”_

_“We are prepared though, my gun's just at my calf, I can reach it within two seconds. And no one knows we’re here, no one’s coming for us — we’re coming for them.”_

_“We never know who knows where we are, really. I get that, but do you ever feel scared?”_

_“Uhh—“_ Yes. All the time. Not now, though, not with you. _“I mean, sometimes, not usually.” Ethan lies. “It’s natural to feel scared, it’s what your mind wants you to feel when it thinks you might harm yourself.”_

_“Okay, well forget about what your mind wants you to feel. Do you, Ethan Hunt, ever feel scared when you’re about to do these crazy stunts?” Benji’s tone wasn’t flat but it wasn’t hopeful either. Ethan wondered what he was trying to get at._

_“I guess so, if I think about it long enough, but I try not to do that.”_

_“Why don’t you think about it long enough? Surely you must when we go over the plan, you gotta think about all the possible routes we can take, all the endings.”_

_What was with all the questions? Ethan let himself smile gently at Benji’s curiosity, he was always so talkative._

_“Not really. I don’t factor my own death into mission plans, especially not if I know I’m not going to die. Plus, fear only slows me down.”_

_Benji hums and Ethan swerves suddenly around a largely protruding rock, it jostles Benji sideways and he hears his iPad hit the side of the car. For some reason Ethan hopes that it will distract Benji long enough to forget about their conversation._

_“Okay, but, why don’t you ever let yourself be scared that you might die? You’ve been close so many times before, why don’t you let the fear take over and stop you from doing stupid shit?”_

_Ethan stifles a laugh, “Stupid shit?”_

_“Yeah, you’re always running around chasing people down with guns, or the other way round, someday you’re going to get real hurt because you’re not scared enough to stop yourself.”_

_Benji has stopped looking down at his electronics now, he’s looking at Ethan’s side profile. Ethan tries not to let his grip tighten on the wheel._

_“Benji, I won’t—I’m not going to get killed because I don’t fear the person trying to kill me. That’s not how that works.”_

_“Oh. Alright, tell me, how does it work then?”_

_Ethan side glances at his friend, his dear friend, who’s eyes are so full with concern it makes his stomach clench. He then looks over his shoulder to make sure Luther and Ilsa are definitely asleep in the back; they’re lounged over each other, whatever they’d been holding before had now fallen onto the car floor._

_He decides it’s safe to continue, he asks, “Where are you going with this, Benji? I’m getting the indication that you’re unnecessarily worrying over something. Everything okay?”_

_Benji sighs. “No, no, it’s not okay. I’m scared, Ethan.”_

_“I already said that it was perfectly natural to be scared. Everything’s going to go just fine, we’re going to find the other two plutonium cores, deactivate them, get Lane and Walker in the process and then head back. All good.”_

_“See—that’s where I’m nervous, you say we’re going to fine but how can you know that? As far as I can tell, you’re not exactly a time traveller, you don’t know the future.”_

_“Of course I don’t know the future, but I have enough trust in us all that we’re going to walk out of this alive, all of us together. The worst thing that could happen is that the bombs go off before we even get there. Let’s just hope they’re still getting ready.”_

_“No, the worst thing that could happen is one of us dying. Which is more likely than you seem to let yourself believe.”_

_“I don’t—I’m not denying the possibility of one of us getting injured, it happens, but I doubt it’ll happen here. Our mission is simple.” Change it up, do something. “In fact they’re probably not even there anymore, Benji, they don’t want to be in the blast zone. We’ll have a free space to work on the bombs.”_

_“Stop talking about where they bloody are! I don’t care where they are, I care about someone getting hurt. Goddamnit, it’s going to happen, I just know it, and it’s probably going to be you. You and your reckless mind, thinking you can do whatever you want and come out untouched, like damn superman.”_

_Angry. Disappointed. Concerned. Angry and disappointed with Ethan. Concerned for Ethan._

_Ethan looked over at Benji again, he had now fully turned in his seat so that he was facing Ethan. He wanted to reach out and take one of his noticeably shaking hands, to still them. God, he wanted to hold him, whisper into his hair that he wasn’t leaving, he would never leave him alone. Ethan yearned to have Benji know that he’d do anything to keep him safe. If only it was so easy to communicate that to the man._

_“I don’t think I’m superman,” he tried smiling, raising his eyebrows at Benji, trying to cheer him up and lighten the mood. “You, however, would make a great Clark Kent — all glasses and suspenders.”_

_It got a chuckle out of Benji, Ethan drowned himself in the soft sound of his laughter, he was yearning for more._

_“I bet you’d make a great reporter too, you were probably at the top of your class in English.”_

_Another laugh, louder this time. Ethan felt his heart beating in his throat._

_“As a matter of fact, I was. Principal even gave me an award at assembly because I wrote a really good piece on the price of Jaffa Cakes compared to how many there were in the standard packet. It’s still hanging on my wall,” then carefully he added, “you should come see it sometime.”_

_The thought of going over to Benji’s apartment, which despite knowing the man for more than 10 years, he still hadn’t seen, excited Ethan to a point beyond belief. He often imagined going over to his place, making himself comfortable on his couch and listening intently as Benji busied himself with making them both tea. Then maybe they’d snuggle up close in the winter chill and watch a Star Trek film, the ones Benji’s always yapping on about during their stakeouts. He never minded._

_Ethan might feel as if he’d always lived there, with Benji, perfectly content with life._

_He gave a toothy smile, genuinely happy with the suggestion. “That sounds good—really good, I’d love to see it.”_

_“It’s quite a report.”_

_“I’m sure it is. Maybe I could come over after this, you know, once all this blows over.”_

_The reminder of the current mess they were caught up in was a bad idea, Ethan watched as Benji visibly stiffened. He looked as if he’d closed up again, his eyes glazing over once again and his knee began to jig._

_“If you make it that far.” Benji mumbled, obviously sulking again, there was a hint of anger in his voice now. Ethan could never ignore when Benji’s voice had a certain sharpness to it, Benji didn’t know this, but it affected him more than he’d like to admit._

_“Why are you so—“ Ethan stopped himself, he was close to snapping. There was a sudden burn of fury deep in his belly._

_“Oh, come on! Don’t stop there, go on, let it out. Why am I so what? So annoying? Pushy? Scared?”_

_“No, I don’t care that you’re scared,” That came out wrong. “I mean, it’s okay to be scared. I just, why do you keep insisting that I’m going to get hurt, or die? You’re going to jinx me.”_

_There was a snarl to Benji’s words, “Never thought I’d hear you say the word ‘jinx’. Don’t rely on luck to save your life, Ethan.”_

_“I don’t believe in luck.”_

_“Good because it won’t stop you from dying.”_

_“Never said it would.”_

_“Good. Fine.”_

_They lapsed into silence. Not a nice kind either, they were both fuming, ears hot and mouth pulled into a tight line. Ethan wanted to ask if they were fighting, and why._

_They drove for five more minutes before Ethan had come to the conclusion that if this was to be their last personal conversation before running into danger, he didn’t want it to end with this. He wasn’t the best with feelings, or reading people, but Ethan could tell that Benji was upset with him (reason yet to be deduced). Ethan was more stubborn than Benji, that was universally known, but there was a part of him that though it was probably, most likely, definitely, his fault that Benji was acting this way. He threw the idea of apologising around in his head._

_“Sorry.”_

_Benji cleared his throat and jerked his head, it was almost comical. “Hm—what was that?”_

_“I said I’m sorry. I don’t know—“ Ethan slowed down so he could pick his words carefully, he imagined this is what having an overly sensitive girlfriend would be like, “I’m sorry for upsetting you, but you’re going to have to tell me what’s up, why you’re so riled up about what might happen in Kashmir. Otherwise I can't help.”_

_His companion sighed again, “Listen, you—I don’t want—you run into these things head first. Completely blind and dismissive of the fact that your chances of survival are decreasing with every mission.”_

_“And that upsets you… how?”_

_“I don’t believe in luck either, but I do believe that after such a long line of successfully pulled off missions, it’s inevitable that something bad is going to head your way. You hurt yourself pretty badly at the Kremlin, file even said that if you’d been angled a little more to the right and hit your head any harder on that car, you’d have died from swelling. You were incredibly lucky—or whatever, to have survived that, and that was the first time you’d had to go to hospital in ages. That was seven years ago. The karma is going to catch up to you, Ethan.”_

_“Forget luck, believe me when I say that it isn’t going to catch up now, not today. This will be easy, quick even. We’re popping in and out. And I’ve got the three of you with me, the karma won’t hurt you too. If fate really is after me, there’s nothing that could go wrong dismantling bombs that could only hurt me.”_

_“Christ, Ethan. There isn’t gonna be a damn force field around us if one of those suckers goes off, this isn’t some fantasy movie. Can you just try to understand what I’m saying?”_

_Now it was Ethan’s turn to sigh, he was becoming tired. It was hard to explain himself to Benji, he didn't understand how he viewed his career, or how he went about. He was born a risk-taker, grew up doing his own stunts on his parent's farm, became a Marine once school was out, he was Ethan Hunt. His entire way of life was dangerous, risky, sometimes scary; but he got through it, always did and always had. That's just the way it was, he wasn't going to stop saving lives all because he happened to get the goosebumps right before jumping off a roof. They were arguing in circles. “Yes, alright, explain to me one more time why you’re so sure I’m going to die this mission. I’m starting to think you’re cheering death on.”_

_Benji looked over his seat, checking up on the others again. They were miraculously still snoring back there. Although Ilsa was now drooling onto the material covering Luther’s bicep, he would not be happy about that._

_He turned back around and took a couple of deep breaths, no doubt getting his thoughts in order._

_“I’m really fucking scared that you’re going to die today, Ethan. I can practically feel it in my blood, I’m jumpy as hell and every voice in my head is yelling at me to take control of the wheel and turn this damn thing around. I don’t know if it’s a sign or something, but it’s making me so uneasy.”_

_It was normal for other team members to worry about their colleagues health and safety, but Ethan was getting the feeling that this was something different, something more extreme. Benji was excessively stressing over this, Ethan could see that his palms were sweaty from where he’d rubbed them over his thighs, he was taking deeper breaths and wouldn’t look away from Ethan._

_“Hey, hey, hey, look, I am not going to die.” Saying that repetitively was starting to convince Ethan that he really was, “If it makes you feel any better—I’m jumpy too, I’m even second guessing this whole thing.” He wasn’t. “But to be honest, you going on about my heart stopping is putting me on edge, man.”_

_“Yeah, shit, sorry. Just don’t know who’ll be my saviour if you get hurt.”_

_“You? You don’t need a saviour. You’re Benjamin Dunn, as tough as bricks.”_

_“Bricks can crumble.”_

_That struck an unseen chord near Ethan’s heart, hit a place he didn’t even know existed. It felt unusual but familiar._

_Ethan looked over at Benji, expecting to see a smile, to see his features soft with humour, not the complete seriousness of his expression. Benji had turned to face Ethan again, his shoulders were slouched, he looked small, vulnerable. His mouth was curved slightly downwards, his eyes focused on Ethan’s, green to green. In that very moment, they hit a small rock, the front of the vehicle elevated, it allowed the sun’s shine to slide through the front windscreen and flash against Benji’s face for a single second; just long enough for Ethan to see the splash of orange twisted within his iris._

_The lighting, the look on his face, the reminder that this man, staring right back at Ethan, was real and breathing and was in need of protection. He was trusting, loyal and uncomfortable; not with how he was sitting, but with where his life was leading him, and with the fact that no one could guarantee his safety, no one could promise him that he’d come out of this still breathing. Ethan wanted to be the one to do that._

_All of that pushed Ethan past his limits, he was ready to sacrifice a part of him in order to make a change in another man’s life, one whom he cherished fiercely._

_“Trust me, Benji. I won’t let anything happen to you.”_

_The corner of Benji’s mouth was pulled further down, his chin was creased, bottom lip very slightly trembling. He was furiously fighting back tears. The tightness in Ethan’s chest was beginning to suffocate him, he’d never understand how one man could affect him so much. He didn’t look back at the road, knew it was straight anyway, screw any rocks; he stared straight back into the beautiful eyes across from him._

_“I promise.”_

_After that they rode in silence until they reached the medical camp. His promise was the last thing he said to Benji, then, in the car, and when he was up in the sky. Right before his radio cut out he’d repeated himself, urgently stumbling over his own stream of words to promise to Benji one more time. The last time — though he didn’t know that then._

_Benji had been in the middle of saying something when comms broke suddenly. The sound of the man’s voice being cut early had haunted Ethan then, and still does now. The thrum of the helicopter blades working, spinning, was the only thing left ringing in Ethan’s ears. He’d yelled back into his earpiece, desperately repeated Benji’s name over and over; even prayed to God that he’d heard his promise. He was waiting for—_

Ethan woke with a start. His breathing was uneven; it came out in fast, hard pants, sounding distant to him. There was a gun in his hand, his gun, pointing towards the shadowy hallway just past the doorway of his room. Ethan’s finger was delicately placed on the trigger, his hand was steady and calm, but his palm was sweating onto the smooth metal. His gun was usually tucked away underneath his pillow.

 _I must have grabbed it thinking someone was in here. In here with me._ Ethan looked around his dark room, nothing was out of place, no cupboards were open, nothing indicating that someone had intruded. This was the first time he’d woken up like this; mind focused on firing at nothing. 

Then the chill came back. He felt it in his toes first, they were peeking out from underneath his duvet at the end of the bed, but before he could process the unique feeling, it began to tingle in his fingertips too. Fearing the gun would go off from his reflexes alone, he dropped the firearm onto the blankets pooling in his lap as fast as possible. 

Ethan rubbed his hands together and sneaked his feet back underneath the warm folds of his duvet, the chill disappeared, he was having trouble even registering that it had existed. First Ethan had woken up from a miracle sleep to find himself completely ready to shoot someone in the chest, next he was experiencing reoccurring cold chills throughout his body despite feeling hot. He sat there for a moment, wondering whether or not he truly was going mad.

_“Benji? Benji!”_

His own voice echoed inside his head, accompanied by the scream of wind and jarring sound of helicopter blades cutting through air.

_Waiting for— still, still waiting for a response._

Ethan felt himself sit as straight as a rod, the memories of his not-so-fictional-dream flooding back through his mind, they came painfully. It was a searing pain, like a thick needle forcing its way though his temple, breaking past the skull and impaling his brain. That would make it swell. Swelling brain. 

_and hit your head any harder on that car, you’d have died from swelling_

It wasn’t his own voice in his head anymore, it was—

_I’m really fucking scared that you’re going to die today_

_No. Shut up. Please. Shut. Up._ Ethan’s groan came out hoarsely, his hands were tugging at the hair on either side of his head. Attempting to rip the fine hairs out from their roots, hoping that pain would surpass the psychological one pushing into the heaviness of his mind. He wasn’t strong enough to handle the memory of the sound of his voice, couldn’t handle that, wouldn’t handle that. Definitely couldn’t handle knowing that he was wrong, he’d been wrong, Ethan wasn’t going to die that day, he _didn’t_ die that day, he wasn’t the _one_ who—

_Stop it. Shut the fuck up. Stop thinking. Stop._

Ethan was aware that he could feel the room physically closing in on him, his chest was tight, he was having difficulty breathing properly. He hadn’t woken up breathing right but now he couldn’t retain the steady rhythm of _normal_ breaths. Ethan pushed his gun onto the floor, the sound of it hitting the ground was so far away Ethan barely noticed. His skin was too hot. The thickness of pure panic was choking him, he could feel it down his throat, his clothes were too hot, he kicked off all the blankets. Ethan fanned himself with the neck of his t-shirt, he was boiling up, the soft fabric was too much contact, he couldn’t breathe with that much contact. Ethan threw his shirt off, it didn’t help, he still couldn't breathe, he didn’t know where to look, he was panicking. He was panicking. Ethan scratched at the section of his chest right where it connected with his throat, he desperately clawed the skin with his bitten nails, frantic, he needed to breathe. 

Then it stopped. There was a crash outside, past the hallway and somewhere by the living room, the sound of broken glass on polished wooden floorboards. There was a certain clank too, like wood on wood. Glass and cheap wood breaking. What did he own that— a picture frame. Ethan stopped moving. There was only one picture frame in the apartment. 

The wind couldn’t have knocked off the picture from the cabinet, it was summertime and all entryways were locked. His windows were locked. It couldn’t have been his cat jumping up at it, looking for some entertainment on the way to the kitchen for a midnight snack, he didn’t own one. It couldn’t have been a person accidentally knocking against the wooden shelving, rocking the items sitting atop of it, letting the picture drop in the process. The frame was hanging from the wall. And his windows were locked.

It had been something else.

Ethan breathed deeply through his nose, his bout of pain and panic wore off gradually, self defence and curiosity took over. He felt like an entirely different person, possibly one not suffering mental disorders. He slipped his feet off the bed, landing soundlessly due to the blanket on the ground. Ethan bent down to pick up his gun, raised it in front of him, flicked off safety and carefully made his way through the bedroom door. 

He let the gun turn the corner first, he followed closely behind, peering at the shadows that were tucked away behind the kitchen equipment on the counter. The living room and kitchen were connected, more space for Ethan to investigate. Facing the couch, beside the television, past the mostly empty cabinet holding some of his possessions (and a few fake accessories in case anyone went _looking_ ), was the nail in the wall. 

Ethan snuck up to it, only after he’d assured himself it was safe to, and that no, there didn’t seem to be anyone in his home; and took a good look at it. There were remanence of some coarse string still attached to the nail, jammed in between plaster wall and the nail itself. Whatever had caused the picture to fall had a kick to it, it’d been tugged with force, purposely. 

He tucked the gun into his waistband. He was only wearing shorts.

Mindful of the fact that he was barefoot, Ethan sidestepped around the frame lying picture down on the ground; there was a single, moderately sized, shard of glass that had come loose and slipped from underneath the cage that kept the rest of the shattered glass together, that being the frame. Ethan’s pulse buzzed when he carefully picked the frame up from its edges, positioning it upright against the wall. The printed faces stared back at him.

He and Benji had taken it at a night market in Marrakesh, Morocco.

They were supposed to be in Casablanca in search for Ilsa, but Ethan was experiencing a rare moment in his career where he didn’t feel the pressure of the mission riding on his shoulders, he felt carefree and light. He took it as an opportunity to have some fun, so he’d dragged Benji through the desert with him until they ended up in the middle of the most spectacular market. 

Benji had his arm tightly wrapped around Ethan’s shoulders, with Ethan’s hand pressed neatly into the centre of his chest, left arm curled around the back of him. Benji was wearing a plain coloured loose Oxford shirt, it jutted out where it’d been tucked into his khakis, fastened with a leather belt. He looked comfortable and happy, the smile on his face was real and wide, showing off all his teeth and creating creases from his nose to chin. He looked alive with emotion. The lantern display in the background created a glow that lit up the back of their heads, they were illuminated with such positive energy. He wanted it back. Wanted him back.

Ethan feels that his eyelashes are wet. The longing in his heart was strong, lulling Ethan into a sense of anger and despair. He balls his hands by his shins, he’s kneeling by the picture on the ground. This was the only thing in his apartment that never failed to calm him, especially when he’d wander around after zoning out and questioned where he was, what the date was, or who the hell he even was. Yet it wasn’t working. The glass screen had been broken, he couldn’t see his reflection beside Benji’s face anymore, only the disappointing still print. Disappointing because Ethan’s tiny head was turned to the side, long fringe blowing into his face, covering his eyes and part of his smile. He couldn’t even recognise that it was him. It was like he'd never been there in the first place. 

The sun was beginning to rise and the once startling blackness of his furniture had turned into a dull blue, Ethan only saw it as an impression of his emotions. He was so furious, Ethan hadn’t noticed that the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck had stood, hadn’t noticed that it had become cold.

“Why?” He grunted into his empty apartment, his voice uneven yet strong. There came an unexpected reply. 

“It was the only way I could get you to notice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> grrrr i edited this very quickly, ive attempted to proofread but im so tired. so im sorry if its not as good as it can be, but im uploading it for you guyseseses sake. thanks babes

**Author's Note:**

> yo if you have time, please leave me a comment, gosh you'd never believe howmuch they encourage me to keep going at it. i fucking love writing, but i think i love comments even more. so please, even if its just an emoji. i will die for you.


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